


COMMAND ME TO BE WELL (GOOD GOD LET ME GIVE YOU MY LIFE)

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 2nd person POV, Fluff, Food mention, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you</p><p>(Oikawa overworks himself)</p>
            </blockquote>





	COMMAND ME TO BE WELL (GOOD GOD LET ME GIVE YOU MY LIFE)

It’s awful late. The air thrums with a sickly tremor, and so do you. You feel as if you’re within the feverish haze of a nightmare: terrible images present themselves to you and you can’t seem to understand them. 

The first in this succession is the pallid glow of the gymnasium fluorescents. You know how little he’s slept lately, how little he’s eaten. When you’re close enough to hear the screech of rubber sneakers against hardwood, your mouth feels like cotton. 

The second is Tooru’s phone. Sitting on the bench near the entrance to the gym, the screen is lit: displaying some ungodly hour and texts and snapchats from various girls in your class. The part that startles you the most is that the background image: it’s a picture of a match taken from the stands, probably from a recording that Tooru has nearly memorized. It’s their Inter-high preliminary match against Shiratorizawa. You feel a fire in your stomach, clench your teeth and put your hand to your head: Is he trying to remind himself? Is he trying to repent? 

The third and final disturbing image is Tooru himself. His form is perfect, his jump effortless. When he comes back down to the earth, his hands and knees are shaking, and his fingers slip and fumble when he grabs another ball from the basket. He doesn’t notice you come in, but the closer you get to him, the sicker he looks. 

By the time you’re close enough to count every merlot bruise and watch the sweat drip down his face, you’re seething with rage. You don’t know how to make him stop, but you take his forearm in your fist anyways, push him until he falls to the floor and is shaken from his fugue. He’s gaping, blubbering like a fish out of water, and you don’t regret interrupting him when you start to speak, when you start to yell. 

“Fuck, Tooru, we gotta get you out of here. Look at you, you’re fucked up.”

There’s no longer any expression to his face, but his fingers have gone weak from where they were grabbing at your shirt, your arm. You take this opportunity to gather him up, carry him like a bride. His head lolls back, his Adam’s apple and jaw sharp in places that you used to know as baby fat and baby teeth; his lips are a bluish purple-grey. You hold his lifeless body in some bastardization of the Pietá, and listen to the angels who weep for him. 

You kick open the door to the locker room, lay him down on the floor and turn on a shower faucet. You can hear him beginning to hyperventilate hoarsely, and you’re so angry because you can’t understand what any of this means. When the water’s warm you pull him up and lean him against yourself, undress him, gently nudge him under the steaming spray. You think that you should be able to feel something right now, but you can’t, and you don’t. He doesn’t remember to close the plastic curtain, and the sight of Tooru, bitterly miserable, soaking wet and all choked up; hits you harder than seeing Oikawa naked ever could. 

You shuffle him out, wrap him in towels you had found left around the locker room. You sit him on a bench and kneel in front of him, his knees poking into your stomach. When you’re rubbing his hair dry, you can tell he’s biting his tongue to keep from crying. 

“Hey, hey, don’t do that.” You hold his cheek in one hand, wrestling the other between his lips to get him to stop. You don’t know what’s come over you. 

He’s barely conscious when you dress him in some spare uniforms from the storage closet, but there are tears tracing tracks down his cheeks. You toss his practice clothes, his phone and his water bottle into your bag, tuck him into your coat, and leave for home. 

He doesn’t touch you on the train, only leans his forehead against the window. It’s dark, and he closes his eyes so as not to see his reflection. 

At the station, he doubles over and begins to retch onto the pavement. He vomits once, twice, and only water comes back up. People stare, and you don’t let Tooru notice. All you need is to be home. He holds onto your hand the rest of the way back. 

You smuggle him back into your house and up the stairs, thank God your parents are asleep. He sinks onto your bed and lays on top of the covers as you find him some clothes to sleep in. Again, you help him undress and change. He’s crying, still, soft sobs coming in between disjointed hiccups. You sweep the volleyball uniforms out of his field of vision and pull some of your clothes onto him: some grey sweatpants, a worn-into-softness T-shirt from Lil Tykes. You want to surround him with things that you absolutely know make him happy. 

You take your softest, heaviest blanket, bundle him in it and tuck him beneath the duvet. He weakly complains until you crawl into bed next to him. You talk to him gently to give him some white noise to listen to, stroke his back to distract him until he sleeps. 

—  
When he wakes up in the morning, you hold his head in your lap and rub through his hair. You break up some milk bread and hand-feed it to him, tuck him under your arm from where you’re propped up in bed. You take his phone from where it had been left on your nightstand, he doesn’t pay attention. You ask him what his passcode is, and he doesn’t move or open his eyes when he hums and confesses:

“ Seventeen, thirty-eight.” 

You delete the picture of the Shiratorizawa match.

**Author's Note:**

> "Lil Tykes Volleyball Classroom" is where Iwaizumi and Oikawa learned as kids and where Oikawa volunteers in his free time. 
> 
> Title and description are from Hozier's "Take Me To Church" bc I'm a mainstream jackass
> 
> I don't own Haikyuu
> 
> (If you didn't notice: Oikawa's phone passcode used to be Iwaizumi's birthdate, I just edited it to say 1738 from trap queen lmfao comment if u noticed)
> 
> Insp by this post: http://nsfw--hq.tumblr.com/post/114155671811/when-iwa-chan-finds-oikawa-overworking-himself-in


End file.
